


Political Science and the Half-blood Prince

by Darklady



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: Evil Intentions, Future Fic, Gen, Machivelli has nothing on these guys, Politics, Rocks are falling and everyone might die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-11
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-24 22:53:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2599502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darklady/pseuds/Darklady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The King is dead, and nobody is likely to live very long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kin Unkind

“Christ!” The lawyer slammed down the office phone, the noise bringing the door guards to full attention. He ignored their stares, addressing himself to his future ruler. “Prince Viktor? Are you even sure Sean Renard is your cousin? The idiot checked into a Hotel Ibis without so much as a bodyguard.”

“Sean is in Vienna?” That news had the crown prince on his feet. He had half expected his bastard cousin to stay in Portland, shielding himself behind his pet Grimm and the utter insignificance of his petty police domain. He had equally anticipated the Zauberbiest to elbow his way though the front door, insisting on his _(rather thin)_ rights as the last surviving _(if illegitimate)_ son of the recently deceased King. This? This he had not imagined. “Sean came alone?” 

“There is a small entourage.” The lawyer shrugged. “He’s got one human cop…”

“Not the Grimm? Not Nicholas Burkhardt?”

“No. The man registered as Hank Griffen.”

“And you trust that?”

“It is easy enough to tell black from white.”

Well, no, in these days it wasn’t – but Price Viktor assumed the other man intended his comment to cover only the visual, and that was a fair enough clue. Why Sean Renard had brought a common detective – even one who was Kehrseite-Schlich-Kennen – was…well… as inexplicable as all the other decisions emerging from that insane American city.

“Who else?”

“The Wieder Blutbad Edward Monroe and his Fuchsbau wife.”

“Good lord why? You think even a bastard royal would have better taste than to take up with mongrel peasants.”

“Rosalee Calvert is an apothecary. Perhaps **Mr.** Renard was more injured by his potion mishap with the Silverton woman than he let us discover.”

“And even a cowardly wolf would not trust his wife alone with my cousin.” Prince Victor nodded, pleased with his own conclusion.

“Also one Eisbiber.”

“A rodent? Why would one want that around?”

The lawyer smirked. “Your Highness, someone has to carry the luggage.”

True enough, Viktor acknowledged. No Renard would labor as a porter when there were common folk about. Even the bastard could not be so lost to the expectations of his blood. Half his blood.

“And that is all? No sign of the Grimm? No sign of that damnable Hexenbeast?”

“None, sir. I had my men check the hotel register. The only other Americans checking in today are a college student by the name of Terry Trubel with her mother Kelley and a church group of sheep Wessen.”

“I think we can safely ignore them, unless I feel a sudden need for a sweater.”

The Schakal guards at the door laughed politely. The lawyer contented himself with a thin smile. “So shall I leave your cousin there or invite him to the palace?”

“For now? Leave my American cousin to his vaunted independence.” He arched a sardonic eyebrow. “It is the national trait, or so I have been told.” Plus, the man’s residence in such a shabby tourist hotel was a better guarantee that he would not converse with the more important delegates to Viktor’s coronation – the Master of the Reapers and the President of the Wessen Council – than Viktor could have assured with a squad of Schakals.

“And tomorrow?”

Prince Viktor considered that question – carefully. It would be a personal pleasure to leave the encroaching bastard to make his own way to the funeral. With luck he might not even get his common taxi past the ranks of security, or be late enough that Viktor could - regretfully, of course – give his seat at the cathedral to someone more worthy. (And anyone – just anyone – was more worthy.) What a deep thrill it would be to consign the unprincely failure to the farthest benches, the ones matching the man’s future insignificance. But no. A King did not consider his own pleasure. Not openly. Besides which, a petty snub now might alert his clueless cousin as to just how little Viktor was willing to rely on the American’s willing separation from the royal power. Better to play the generous host until the crown was firmly on the proper head.

“Welcome my cousin, and let him know I am sending a car for the funeral.” One more limo was a cheap investment in disarming his cousin’s suspicions. Until the coronation he would smile and smile and… yes indeed… Viktor did like how that saying ended.


	2. Vox Populi

“That went well, Your Royal Highness.” Viktor’s personal secretary bowed as the servants helped their prince out of his black overcoat.

“It rather did,” Prince Viktor acknowledged his secretary graciously. It was always wise to reward good service – at least from those servants for whom one still had a use – and praise was far easier to dispense than any material payment. But _(if one must be fair)_ the Pflichttreue had done an exemplary job in arranging the old king’s funeral. No easy task, given the delicate relations between the royal house and the other Wessen groups who presumed to power in this so-called age of democracy.

Victor felt his fingers twist into claws at the thought.

Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he strolled to the wide balcony overlooking the palace grounds. Today the gardens were teaming with visitors – Kehrseite and Wessen intermingled – here to witness another generation take the royal power. Even the Reinigen had wiggled out of their holes, rubbing elbows with Klaustreich. Seelengut thronged beside Blutbad. Even humans. He spotted a leather-clad teen peaking over her sunglasses at a fidgeting college boy, a sweet grandmotherly woman holding a blanket-wrapped baby. All of them were below him now on this wonderful day.

His Schakal guards opened the French doors, and Prince Viktor stepped out into the glorious sunshine of his new day.

The crowd cheered.

Victor smiled. This was how it should be, with the acknowledgement of the glory he had deserved from his birth.

Eventually, he comforted himself. Eventually he would restore the world to a proper order, one with him at the throne and everyone else… well, everyone else would know their place as well. Until then? He sipped at his brandy – a rare bottle from the royal cellar – and felt the liquid fire burn away all hesitation.

Summoning the quivering Mausherz tailor, he stroked the waiting ermine-trimmed cape with its rows of gold embroidery. Purple had always been a good color on him. 

“How long until my coronation?”

“Two more hours, sire.”

“Slow.”

“We do have to allow for traffic. Several of the delegates are still at the Cathedral.” The man sidled sideways, moving out of range of Viktor’s temper. “You would not want…”

“Of course not.” Not while the Wessen Council, or worse yet the Reapers, were in any position to raise objections.

“I did note that the entire Wessen Council is in attendance.” The Pflichttreue bobbed, practically begging for a scrich behind his ears. “A very good beginning for your reign.”

“Yes, yes.” Victor could not care less about the old farts of the Wessen Council. They had a power of a kind over the common sort of Wessen, but as he cared neither for commoners nor Wessen? “Speaking of those in attendance, did you by chance spot my dear cousin Sean?”

“Yes, your Royal Highness,” 

“And?” Viktor snapped. He wasn’t asking to hear his own voice.

“Pri… I mean, Mr. Renard arrived at the Cathedral alone and spoke to no one but some distant relatives of no particular rank. He left immediately after the service and …”

“And?”

“ The car assigned to your cousin had a rather severe accident.”

“You sound distressed.”

“Extremely.” The secretary’s expression was now sincerely unhappy. “Despite that incident, the man arrived here a few minutes before yourself.”

“How did that happen?” 

“I have agents working on that question. The short answer would seem to be ‘by taxi’. “ The longer answer would after considerable pain. Hopefully the pain of lesser creatures, but the prospect had the secretary eager to placate his master. “I had him shown to one of the smaller parlors, and I’ve directed the guards that he is to have no visitors.” The Pflichttreue’s smile, even in human face, was a sharp with teeth. “One would hate to have your cousin… disturbed… by any inappropriate suggestions as to the succession.”

“No indeed. He might get the wild idea to challenge me.”

“That would be most unfortunate, sire. For him.”

“Still, my cousin does have a reputation for… let us call it unpredictability. He is the old king’s last remaining son. A bastard, but bastards have taken the throne before. I would not put it beyond my cousin’s ambition.”

“At this late date?”

“What other date is there?” He was so close, but close is when a crown was most evasive. Much like Sean Renard.

“Perhaps Mr. Renard could miss the coronation?” he purred. “The palace is old, and doors have been known to stick.”

“No.” The prince shook his head. “Not even a Lausenschlange would believe that, and the lie would only make me look weak.”

“Perhaps I could seat him next to some of your more devoted supporters. Say a Hässlich or two? They could keep him in his chair.”

“Better – but no. Sean Renard is not a man easily held back.”

“Then what, sire?”

“Enough of my guests have experienced my cousin’s arrogance that they will expect a blood challenge.” Prince Viktor paused, strengthening his courage with the cheers of the ever-growing mob below. ”I think I should give them one.”


	3. Consent of the Governed

The great hall was magnificent, glittering, as it had not for a century or more. The previous king, may he rest in peace, had come to the throne during the desperate years of WWII, when not just the family palace but their city and indeed country had been under foreign occupation. His elevation had been a sad thing, the naming of an unready boy by a crew of desperate men clawing to keep a scrap of their vanishing power. This coronation, however? 

Viktor smiled faintly, nodding to the representatives of the Beati Paoli as he strode between their awe-struck ranks.

This was the coronation of His Most Royal Highness Viktor Albert Wilhelm George Beckendorf, soon to be King Viktor the VIII and thereafter the historical restorer of the honor and power of his noble line.

Truly, he thought as the delegates bowed in his wake, they were all so honored to be here with him today.

Ahead of him the ancient throne was waiting, holding for now the crown and sword of the Royal House. Flanking it in chains stood his captives, Sebastien Lagadec and Adalind Schade.

Reaching the front, Victor himself bowed for the last time, greeting the ancient Archbishop.

The old man took Viktor’s strong hands between his own, kissing them.

“Do you, Viktor Albert Wilhelm George Beckendorf, vow that you will rule these lands and these peoples with justice, watching and guiding as a Lion his cubs? Will you care for them as the Pelican his nest?

“I will rule them, Your Grace.”

The old man pressed Viktor’s shoulder, urging him to face the congregation.

"Good Wessen, I present unto you your undoubted King. All you who are come this day to do your Homage and Service. If there are any amongst you who would Challenge his Blood and Right, speak now and face the Judgment.

“I do.” Viktor said. “I Challenge.”

“What?”

“Who?”

The room erupted in babble.

“Prince Viktor.” The black-clad delegate from the Ahnenerbe sounded confused – probably for the first time in his unnatural life. “You can’t contest your own…”

Viktor ignored him. “I – Viktor Beckendorf - do say that Sean Renard is conspiring to take the throne, and I challenge him to act openly or forever renounce his claim.”

Sean Renard stood slowly from his seat in the third row. “And if I do abdicate, cousin, there is still zero chance you will let me live.”

“Mercy is not the Family way.”

“So be it.” Sean shucked his black suit jacket, handing it to a neighbor. “Not what I had come here anticipating but? Challenge accepted. ” He walked slowly, soft as a tiger, towards the open space before the throne. “So, cousin. Will it be swords? Pistols? Is it my choice, since you are the challenger, or yours as you challenged on my behalf?”

Viktor ripped of the royal cape, tossing it to the platform behind him.

At that signal, his guards flanking him woged to their jackal forms.

“Tradition states that it is my supporters against yours. But…” here Viktor grinned, sharp as any jackal. “It seems you do not have any supporters. Not even your tame fox.”

From the very rear of the chamber a voice squeaked “Not so fast.” One Wessen – and to Viktor’s amused shock it was his tailor, took a place at Sean’s side. 

From the other aisle, a flock of Seelengut pressed to the front.

Over the next minute several other servants come up slowly, woging their true faces – until soon he room is divided; jackals and nobles on Viktor’s side, servants and common visitors opposite.

Prince Viktor laughed. “You expect to take me on with…what. Mice and Sheep?"

Sean Renard nodded. “And Bats and Rats and all the others that you overlooked wile you were playing politics with my late and unbeloved … shall we be polite and say fiancée?” 

Viktor’s eyes flashed to Adalind. A Hexenbiest was dangerous even in chains. But no – she was calm where she was, showing no sign of moving to support Renard. “I prefer to name her as my prize.”

“As you will.” Renard did not look at Adalind, nor even at his old conspirator Sebastien. He seemed as indifferent to them as to the ceiling or furniture. Indeed, one might name him more interested in the furniture, the way his eyes scanned over the ancient rafters.

“You see, the queens and the knights may have trickier moves than the pawns – but there are one heck of a lot of pawns. It appears that those ‘lesser pieces’ prefer my way of managing things.’ Sean rolled his cuffs, casual as if at a picnic. “My way means they get to go home and hug their kids and go to their jobs and live the sort of mundane and boring life that you so openly despise. They get to do that because the people who don’t do that become my problem.”

“You and your pet Grimm.”

“That too.” Sean agreed. “For these last twenty years – while you’ve been here being a Prince – I’ve been working. I am a police officer. Seriously. You don’t become a Captain because of your family name – or at least not only because of your family name. In that job I’ve learned that the only thing people hate more than cops in not having cops. The only thing they hate more than a Grimm is… your world, where there is nothing to protect them against the bigger monsters. And there is always – always, my dear Viktor – a bigger monster.”

“So where is your monster slayer.” Viktor stepped forward, making a show of looking around. “I don’t see Nicholas Burkhardt here to protect you from me.”

Viktor hears faint ‘plop’ – softer even than the breathing of the crowd – and feels a line of pain cross his throat.

A woman’s voice speaks in his ear. “It’s very sexist the way you keep looking for Nick.”

“When we’re every bit as Grimm,” a girl finishes, “and you invited us right in the door.”

Viktor recognizes her – twice. First as the giddy teenager he watched flirt below his balcony. Second as a Grimm.

“So, dear cousin.” Sean stepped forward, Zauberbiest aspect blatant in teeth and claws. “Will you surrender the throne, or will you fight me monster to monster?”

“I will fight you.”

“Good choice” the Grimm at his back whispered.

Viktor felt – or rather ceased to feel – the blade at his throat.

His Schakal guard fell back, making room. Sean’s mob of peasantry did likewise.

The Archbishop frowned at both men, but at Viktor’s insistence raised the crown and intoned, “For the Right of Blood, and by the Rite of Blood, may the True King be known.”

Sean attacked first, lunging forward in a sweep of claws.

Viktor dodged, but not far enough to escape the burning cut across his ribs. He returned the blow with a savage kick to Sean’s head. 

Sean flew back, losing his footing on the polished marble floor.

Viktor rushed forward, tackling Sean before he could rise, slamming him face first into the sharp steps of the throne platform. Sean staggered, falling back into human form. Rolling him over, Viktor pressed a pistol to his cousin’s head.

“BACK!” Viktor shouted at the restless mob of Mausherz.

The flock hesitated, uncertain.

“Such a quaint thought, a peasant uprising, but you will find it does you little good without your bastard king.” Victor stood, pulling a limp Sean Renard up in front of him.

He cocked the pistol and smiled. “Goodbye cousin.”

This was indeed the moment of glory. Surprising, then, that instead of his hated cousin’s blood he saw his own, falling down the Sword of State that now protruded from his own chest.

As the pain hit he saw Adalind smile. “Goodbye Viktor.” 

“You…” Viktor searched Sean’s face with his fading vision. “You knew that she would stab me?”

“Don’t be stupid, cousin.” Sean stepped away from the mess. “I poisoned you an hour ago.”


	4. Lorde Had It Right

“So…what. You’re like the king now?” Truble stared around the reception parlor, more in awe of the art then of the encyclopedias’ worth of Wessen still babbling their confusion at the days events. 

Reasonable, Sean Renard allowed. The girl had seen Wessen before. It was unlikely that she had ever been exposed to a Rembrandt.

“Yes.” Adalind Schade answered, looking up from the chaise lounge. The last half hour had seen her power restored and her daughter returned, so she was in what passed – for a bitchy degree of Hexenbiest - as a cooperative mood.

“No.” Kelly Burkhardt snapped.

Sean Renard went around, topping up everyone’s brandy snifters. New glassware for serving new brandy that had been purchased from a randomly chosen shop and picked up by Bud Wurstner. Sean wasn’t risking any of his departed cousins foolish assumptions as to the good will of the kitchen staff. The action was kind, and it also gave him the chance to think. “It’s complicated.” 

Nick Burkhardt took a deep breath. “Why am I not surprised.”

Sean rested against the carved mantle of the great fireplace, admiring the way the firelight reflected off his own glass. “You. Me. Monroe. Rosalee. Together we have built something new. Something remarkable.” He paused, taking in the rich scent. “You’ve brought me allies - or at least acquaintances – from the Resistance to the Reapers. You’ve replaced constant bloodshed with… well, still a lot of bloodshed _(here he raised his glass to Kelly Burkhardt, and then to the three Reapers who were glowering at her from under the display of mounted trophy heads)_ but occasionally there is also negotiation and compromise. Public trust brings mutual cooperation.”

“Sure,” Hank Griffin snorted. “In between the car chases and shoot outs and freaky homicides.”

“Precisely”. Sean Renard smiled at his detective. “We’ve created a new political future in Portland, one which keeps Hässlich from Reinigen and Blutbad from Bauerschwein.” At Monroe’s growl, he quickly added, “and the reverse, naturally. It works there because we keep the peace and the regular citizens are willing to live peaceably.”

“And these guys aren’t?” Griffin didn’t sound impressed.

His Captain waved loosely at the waiting nobility. “These guys – as you name them – aren’t regular citizens.”

“So what? We go back to hunting?” Hank Griffin sounded even less impressed – which was hard to do when you started from level ‘cop’. “Because – thanks for the complement – but one cop and three Grimms against this whole castle? Those odds don’t work for me.”

“So we give them their own new future.”

The prince tapped his wine class.

The room fell silent. 

Grave silent.

“Aunt Cordellia. Cousin Claude-Paul. Great Uncle Ambrose.” Sean named the three next of his royal line. “I may have won this challenge, but… I honestly don’t think I would make the best leader for our family.”

“Then you…” Claude-Paul Beckendorf stumbled to silence. He had never been an ambitious character – not like his older brother.

“That I would not tolerate Viktor – a man I suspect in the death of my own elder brother – does not mean I will therefore demand the throne for myself, or indeed that I consider myself suited for the office.” He woged as he faced assembly. It was not a comforting vision. “Zauberbiest are not Hexenbiest and American police Captains are not European Princes.”

Bending carefully, he gently lifted the child from Adalind’s arms. Dropping her blanket, he held the baby up above his head, lifting her so everyone in the huge room could see her.

Diana giggled happily.

“Here is your true future, true power and true hope. I give you the unquestioned, unchallenged, true-blood heir to the throne, grad-daughter of the last king and someday mother of the next. I give you the Royal Princess Diana Rosalee Catherine Marie Schade-Renard, Queen Diana the First. Royal blood and Wessen power, she is a hope we can raise for a future far brighter than today.

Carrying Diana to the long table filing the center of the room, he placed the crown on her head – or rather rested her little head on the crown.

Sean Renard looked to the white-bearded man at the far end of the table. “Will the Wessen Council welcome her?”

The old man bowed, deep and sincere. “We will, your Royal Highness.”

“And you, Reginald?” Sean addressed a tall man standing alone near the door.

The man nodded, sharp and certain. “She is acceptable to the Reapers.”

“And the Varrat?” The question was addressed not to the flashy uniformed officer of the Ahnenerbe but to the small and quiet woman most would have taken to be his secretary.

“She is, as you say, the true blood. We pledge faith.”

“And you, Martin Meisner? What of your people?”

“We do not contest.” It was not surrender, but similarly not a declaration of war, which was the best one could expect – or trust – from so scattered a cause as the Resistance.

“So be it.” Collecting his dead cousin’s regalia, he tucked the now rather stained purple robe around the child, easing her little hands tenderly over the white fur lining. Then carefully – slowly – Prince Sean Renard knelt.

“Here to I pledge faith and fire, shield and sword, hand and heart, to Queen Diana. I shall be true vassal to her from this day to my last.” Rising, he bent and kissed her cheek, whispering, “May your reign be happier than mine, and much longer.”

Turning to the audience he announced, “Sebastian Lagadec will be her Prime Minister.” A fair choice, all things considered. Seb had done an excellent job for his brother Eric once you overlooked the minor detail of spying for the Resistance. Given Meisner’s already strong connection, not to mention his promised support, they could discount the prospect of the less-than-loyal opposition needed any more information.

“Adalind Schade will be Regent while our Queen grows.” Sean stepped over and very very gingerly kissed her hand. It was less kindness than caution. While there he whispered “Take care of our daughter.”

Adalind bowed. The audience applauded.

“Tru?” This time Sean didn’t bother with formality.

“Yes, boss?” The young Grimm jumped from where she had been checking out a jeweled curio box.

“I’m leaving you here as her…”

“Babysitter?” Tru interrupted. Her visible squee was near comic-worthy. “I always did like babysitting. And really. Castle in Europe. What’s not to love?”

“Keep my daughter safe, and try not to decapitate too many of her subjects.”

“Sure thing.”

“For my part, gentlemen and ladies? I shall go back to Portland, and I’ll stay in Portland. Unless, of course…”

“Understood, your Royal Highness.” Princess Cordellia knees creaked with the energy of her curtsey. Her left hand, clutched into his Great Uncle Ambrose coat, nearly toppled the man as she pulled him into a bow.

“See,” Sean Renhart remarked to his two detectives. “Public trust and mutual cooperation.”

Nick Burkhardt just frowned. “After all that bitch…. did…. you’re leaving that …. _Hexebeast_ …. In charge?”

“Adalind ‘s a Royal for as long as I live, guaranteeing me the best life insurance magic can buy.” He let the implication answer for him. “Plus I can’t think of anyone more suited for a life of treachery, betrayal, conspiracy, and cut-throat politics. Can you?”

* * * * * 

I'd like to thank those reading this speculative bit of crack. I'm sure it will be Jossed, but until that soon-to-come day? I hope you enjoy. _(And please forgive any typos I did not catch. My spellcheck does not have a 'Wessen' setting.)_

©KKR 2014


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